


Of This Ritual Escape

by snarkyscorp



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, Corpses, M/M, general dark subject matter, undiluted evil, use of unforgivables
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-14
Updated: 2011-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 20:11:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkyscorp/pseuds/snarkyscorp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When his teenaged son walks into the study and asks, <i>Dad, what can you tell me about the Deathly Hallows?</i>, it frightens Harry, and since dying, it takes a lot to frighten him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of This Ritual Escape

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 [](http://hp-darkfest.livejournal.com/profile)[**hp_darkfest**](http://hp-darkfest.livejournal.com/). Thanks to the wonderful, gorgeous, talented [](http://bryoneybrynn.livejournal.com/profile)[**bryoneybrynn**](http://bryoneybrynn.livejournal.com/) for the beta. Intermittent lyrics borrowed from Jimmy Eat World.

  
****

**Of This Ritual Escape**

 ****

- _Will they see the sky again?  
Who will sing their blues for them?_ -

It is a frightening moment in Harry's life—perhaps more frightening than anything he has done in the past twenty-five years—when his teenaged son walks into the study and asks: _Dad, what can you tell me about the Deathly Hallows?_

It is Scorpius Malfoy's doing, Harry is sure. Albus has never before been interested in dark magic or the fairytales his parents promised not to read to him. But Scorpius Malfoy is an outsider, raised by a former Death Eater and the daughter of a pureblood line descending back generations. What Draco and Astoria taught their son, Harry cannot be sure, but the first time Scorpius Malfoy shook his hand, Harry knew something was amiss.

He confided in Ginny, first. She is his rock and sometimes his psychologist, telling him, _slow down, Harry—start from the beginning_ in that understanding way that both irks Harry and floods him with adoration. But Ginny did not understand. She smiled and told him, _You're making too much of nothing_ when he explained about the cool grip of Scorpius's slender hand, the glint in his grey eyes. When he confided in Hermione and Ron afterwards, they both had similar responses, though Harry saw Hermione's brow furrow a bit, in the way it used to when something didn't sit right with her. Harry knows Scorpius is just like Draco, but there is no proof except in that moment when their fingers touched and Harry just knew.

Harry is not the type of man to tell his son who he can or cannot be friends with, but his concern is etched on his face every time Scorpius comes to stay at the Potter house or vacations with their family in Egypt, Rome, America… It does not go unnoticed to Harry when Scorpius leans in a fraction too close to tell Albus a secret or the colour in his son's face when the two boys bump hands trying to grab the same scone off the dinner table. Harry understands, and he does not blame sexuality or the recklessness of innocent adolescence or Al's awkward phase that never quite ended and which Scorpius seemed to ignore, but at the same time, he cannot help but feel something is wrong with the way Scorpius looks at his son, in the lack of embarrassment on his face when Harry catches him staring, in the simple excuses for the quiet noises in Al's bedroom that Harry tries to ignore but knows and knows and knows he cannot.

And now Albus walks in and asks him a question he can't possibly imagine his father will answer, and Harry knows it is Scorpius' doing. Harry looks up from the Ministry post he received moments earlier, Kingsley's owl perched at the windowsill, awaiting a prompt response and cooing indignantly, because Harry has already stalled long enough. The only question harder than the one his son asks is the one that has been repeated twice this week from Kingsley in urgency— _Will you take over as Minister for Magic, should I die_? This specific letter also includes a plea: _There is no one at the Ministry I trust more than you, Harry. Please, think about it._

Harry knows both questions must be given apt, proper attention, but somehow Minister Potter seems far less daunting now than it did hours ago when Kingsley admitted the journey that he was undertaking might mean the end of his life. How fitting, strangely, that Kingsley's news had instantly reminded Harry of Dumbledore, of being seventeen, of the Gaunt ring and the Hallows chase, and how sad that now he was flooded with memories he had spent a lifetime trying to forget.

 _The war is over_ , Ron always said. _We can relax now, mate! Enjoy ourselves._

But somehow, the war is never over for Harry, not in mind nor corporeal troubles. Somehow, there are still dark wizards hiding in wait, biding their time, and if there is one thing Harry has taught his children, it is that darkness is fickle and love is the most important sentiment to hold close. Always love. And though he suspects his children do not understand in the same way he understood at their age, love really is the only weapon any of them have against the darkness that crowds in through his happiness day by day, hoarding its power over Harry like a shroud. He walks with constant vigilance tucked under his arm, with _I must not tell lies_ like a chip on his shoulder, with the fear of losing everything hugged close to his heart. Nobody thinks of these things anymore. Nobody worries. Harry does it for them.

Harry's fingers are light against the quill. It bleeds ink onto the parchment, slopping his signature in thick, clumsy black blobs that altogether barely read his name. Kingsley will forgive him this trepidation, since the decision is so absurd that Harry cannot believe he has said yes until the owl is gone and there is no turning back.

"Dad?"

But there will be time later to talk to Ginny, to explain to Ron and Hermione, to prepare himself, should Kingsley fail. Harry has not said a word in answer to his son's question, and it is of utmost importance that he does. Yet, he is still thinking of the war, of Dumbledore's rotted hand and Ron's jealous heart, of Nagini slithering out of Bathilda Bagshot's rotting throat, of Draco's frightened face in the Room of Requirement as fire engulfed the room, of walking to his death in the forest, of Dobby and Hedwig and Remus and Tonks and Fred and—

But he must answer. He knows it is a delicate subject, and one wrong response could mean his son goes down a path that is ungoable. It frightens Harry, and since dying, it takes a lot to frighten him.

Finally, after a time poised to speak, Harry turns to face his son and offers a frown where a smile should be.

"Let's take a walk," he says. "Come on."

Harry's arm around his son's skinny shoulders, they walk together down a dark hallway towards the light of the nearby hearth. Together, they step through and Harry says, in a clear voice, "Head Auror Potter's office, Ministry of Magic. Password: 'green plaid socks'." He does not notice his son's shaking huddle beside him, is simply glad of the privacy of the connecting Floo on a cold, rainy Saturday afternoon.

  


- _Will they breathe our air again?  
Who will sing their blues for them?_ -

It has been years in the making, and Scorpius knows it all comes down to this moment. If Albus is successful with his father—and Scorpius already knows Harry is too honest and trusting for this plan to fail—and if Scorpius is successful here tonight, he will be Master of Death by nightfall. If neither are successful or if even one of them fails, everything will fall apart and Scorpius' plan will be exposed. He is sure Harry would revel in thinking Albus is an innocent pawn and that the full blame of the quest will fall to Scorpius, the son of a Death Eater, corrupter of Potter's favourite son.

And so, they must not fail.

As Scorpius steps up to the small cottage on the outskirts of Tinworth, Cornwall, the coastline seems to crash into view all at once. There are a dozen cottages, separated by lengths of shadowed sand and beach, but there is only one cottage of interest to him tonight—the one that boasts a patched up roof and an enchanted rock garden lining the walkway to the front door. He hopes Albus is right in his supposition, because at this point, that is all anybody has to go on.

The door opens after a moment, and a young man in his twenties stands before Scorpius, his hair a dark, dark blue. He has a friendly face, and the lines of his mouth stretch when he recognises who has just knocked.

"Scorpius," he says, if a little surprised to find a visitor like Scorpius at his door. "What can I do for you? Come in, and get out of the rain, for goodness sakes."

Scorpius puts on his best smile. "Albus sent me, Teddy. He was hoping you could help us." Scorpius takes a tentative, eager step forward under the overhang of a shell-lined awning. He cannot stay his trembling hands. "He told me you collect precious stones."

Teddy nods, ushers Scorpius in without qualm. So trusting, like everyone Harry touches. "I do. Bit of a nutter about them, I suppose, but as a kid, I thought it was cool, and now I just can't seem to stop myself. I've discovered about a dozen new types of preserved materials with magical powers in my studies, and I…" Teddy pauses, glances over Scorpius' shoulder. "Is Al coming, too?"

Scorpius' fingers are sweaty on his wand, but he doesn't raise it. Not yet. _Not yet. Patience._ "In a few moments. He wanted to get his camera."

Teddy closes the door with a nod. "Ah, all right. Want me to grab you a butterbeer or something while we wait for him? Then I can show you my collection—it's pretty impressive, and I only keep half here. Dunno what you or Al would get from it. He's never shown an interest before."

"Are we alone?" Scorpius asks. He knows from Al that Teddy lives with his grandmother, and it would be best if there are no witnesses.

Teddy laughs, already on his way to the kitchen. "Gran's asleep upstairs. She doesn't get out much, and trust me, she's _definitely_ not interested in what she fondly calls my 'rock collection'. Don't worry—nobody will bother us."

"Good." Scorpius raises his wand, aims at the back of Teddy's skull while he's reaching for butterbeers, and says, with conviction, " _Imperio_."

It is instant, the transformation. Teddy pauses and does not move until Scorpius tells him to put the butterbeers back into the icebox and turn around. When Scorpius sees Teddy's eyes, they are hollow and unblinking. It frightens Scorpius. He has never seen anyone look like that, only animals that he practised on under the darkest cloak of night. Teddy looks dead. He looks awful.

But he is perfect.

"Show me a small stone with this etched onto its front," Scorpius says, shoving a small bit of parchment in front of Teddy's face so he can see the unmistakable sketch of the Deathly Hallows.

For a moment, Teddy is so still and unmoving that Scorpius is afraid he cast the wrong spell and rendered Teddy brain-dead, but then Teddy begins to move. Scorpius follows.

  


- _Where will you go, if they come for you?  
Will there be someone left to sing your blues?_ -

Albus cannot help but wish Scorpius could be there with him. Scorpius, who first handed him a copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ , who at only twelve years old believed the fairy tales were true, who at fifteen kissed Albus for the first time and asked if he believed they could reunite the artifacts and rule the world. _His_ Scorpius, who touched his thigh at the dinner table when nobody could see and kissed his body with reverence and taught him spells with luxurious patience and said _if we had the Hallows, just imagine what we could do_ like a bedtime story every evening they were together. His Scorpius. _His_ , who never looked at anybody like he looked at Albus, who could have had anybody but chose Albus over them all, said Albus was special and powerful in ways nobody could understand.

Besides being Harry Potter's middle son, there was nothing particularly noteworthy about Albus. He was bright enough, managed not to curse himself stupid at school, was all right on a broomstick, and was able to translate some runes his friends didn't understand, though that was mostly with Rose's guidance. But he was just a normal boy, nobody extraordinary, nothing like Dad or Grandpa. He wasn't witty like James or clever like Lily or athletic like Mum—he just was, he just existed and often wasted space. But with Scorpius, he felt like someone worthy of his name, someone worth of being not only a Potter but an Albus and a Severus too.

And with the courage Scorpius seemed to have bestowed on him over the previous years spent toiling in the Malfoy Manor and Hogwarts' libraries for Hallows information and the endless promise of _I bet your dad would know_ whispered in the dark of Scorpius' bedroom, Albus asked his father the single most important question he could think of. Because according to rumours and accounts of the final battle at Hogwarts, statements were made about Harry knowing where the Elder Wand was and in fact, possessing that wand during the final battle. What happened after was anybody's guess, though Al knows the wand his father uses now is not the Elder Wand. While it made Albus extremely nervous to ask, he knew Scorpius was right—if they wanted to complete the quest, to unite all the Hallows and become true Masters of Death, then Albus needs to do this.

Albus almost finds it strange that he has owned one Hallow all to himself since the day he turned fifteen. James bestowed the Cloak to him before he left Hogwarts, told Al to use it wisely, and sounded much like Dad giving a lecture on the endless responsibilities of magic. Yet, the only thing in Al's head was _I've got to show Scorpius!_ And when Scorpius saw… God, the look on his face. Al wished he could bottle that look, the slight part of Scorpius' mouth in that gentle _O_ of surprise, the flicker of adrenaline sizzling in his gray eyes. Together, they attempted to break the enchantments of invisibility, to test the cloak's boundaries on Hagrid, on Peeves, on any powerful teacher they could find, even on their own parents. Even Dad didn't notice they were there one evening, standing huddled under the Cloak in the hallway as he passed. No spells could lift its magic, no creatures seemed to sense their hiding beneath it—Scorpius confirmed that he'd never seen anything like it, and he'd seen a lot of dark, wonderful things buried beneath Malfoy Manor.

There is no doubt in Al's mind as he stands beside his father in his office at the Ministry that the true Cloak of Invisibility is the same cloak that is stuffed into Scorpius' satchel at this very moment. Al only hopes that Scorpius is successful, too, because without the Resurrection Stone…but Al is _sure_ if anybody has seen it, it would be Teddy, who has been collecting every bloody rock on the planet since he was five and boasting to own a type of every magical rock in the world. Albus doesn't want to think this quest has all been in vain and certainly doesn't want Scorpius to move on, to find someone who's better at the quest if Al fails. So Al, too, must not fail, and his task seems hardest of all—the Elder Wand.

He stands with his father in the large office, neither of them speaking. This isn't so unusual. Sometimes, Dad is weird like this, a prisoner to memories not even Mum fully understands. Hugo and Rose never mention their parents being so afflicted by what happened during the war, but Albus also knows that Dad is special. What he went through, no one else has. Al always felt especially vulnerable somehow during History of Magic or Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, when a mention of Dad popped up. Dad is a hero, nothing like Albus, and Al feels closed in by the expectations everyone has of him. The endless questions that come after graduation— _What are you going to do now? An Auror, just like your dad, eh?_. They make him sick, make him want to rip his face off and sew a new one in its place. But _Albus Potter, Master of Death_ , sounds like a statement he is ready to make, a statement that no one can counter or maim, that no one can steal out from under him because he is weak. He won't _be_ weak anymore. Scorpius won't let him and he sure as hell won't let himself.

It is quiet for so long that Al glances up to his father and reaches for his hand. Their fingers lace as he whispers, "Dad?" There is still a child buried inside his chest, scraping its nails over his bones to try and hold this moment in time, because he fears it will be the last time he can say _Dad_ like that with so much honest innocence in his voice.

Harry looks down at him. Al feels the weight of his stare, the weight of his life, the weight of all the pressure that stacks and stacks and stacks on top of his dad's narrow shoulders like two-ton stones. He feels unbelievably small, remembers a time just like now when the rain was pattering against the windows in his bedroom like icy fingernails tapping on glass, when he was young and fragile and frightened of shadows, a night when his father, the hero and saviour and knight against the monsters under his bed stalked in with a smile and lumbered over to hold him until he fell asleep. He senses that his dad knows he is remembering this. Harry squeezes his fingers. Al squeezes back.

"I want to tell you a story," Harry says.

His voice in unbearably steady, nothing at all as Al has imagined when this moment comes. He thought his dad would break a bit, would succumb to whatever awful memories hold him prisoner in his own mind. But he sounds so strong, and Al feels so weak in comparison. _Always weak, always small, always vulnerable_ , he reminds himself. _Not anymore, though. Not after tonight._

"About two boys," Harry continues. "Two boys who cared for one another and got wrapped up in a bad idea that they thought would be good in the long run. _For the greater good_ , they said. It was a convenient motto, an excuse for doing unthinkable, awful things to innocent people. This idea, this quest of theirs, broke up their friendship and nearly killed both of them in the process."

Albus wonders who the boys are. His palms feel a bit sweaty, as if Harry knows what he and Scorpius have been up to…but how can he? His dad is many things but a mind reader is not one of them—all the history books confirm what his father has joked about for years: that he is a terrible Legilimens. And without that, what hope does he have at knowing what Scorpius means to Al? Albus has been so quiet and confidential in this relationship, so cautious and careful, walking a tightrope of secrecy and lies to ensure nobody knows, least of all Dad.

"Their quest was to find the Hallows, to be Masters of Death." Harry lets go of Al's hand. "The trouble was, there can only really ever be _one_ master, not two."

Al feels sweaty all over now. He wishes his dad was still holding his hand and feels stupid for such dependency.

"They hadn't thought that far in advance either, Albus."

The sound of his name startles him. It is the first sign that Harry really does know what he wants, what he and Scorpius have been up to this whole time. Al is stiff and shaking.

"I'm not stupid," Al barks. "You think I'm just a kid. I'm not. I know what the legend says."

Harry's face contorts, his lips press tight. "I have never once thought you were stupid, and I'd like to think I treated you with the same respect as any adult." Harry presses both of his strong hands to Al's shoulders, squeezing them, his expression earnest and bared for the reading. "Listen to me. These boys who tried to unite the Hallows, _they_ were foolish. They got wrapped up in all the bad ideas—no, Al, listen to me!"

Al has shaken his father's consoling hands away. There is nothing Harry can do for him now except give him the wand.

"Don't you think I'm a little old for these kinds of morality tales, Dad?" Albus asks. Before he can stop himself, his hand is on his wand. The trouble is, Harry's is too.

Scorpius said this might happen. Al's lips are dry, his whole mouth a desert parched of its last drop of water. He shakes under his father's grip and a few sparks fly from the tip of his wand. Harry's fingers light up under the embers, but if the latent magic hurts him, he doesn't show it, just applies pressure until Al is forced to lower the wand.

"If Scorpius put you up to this," Harry whispers, urgency in his voice. It is a question his dad apparently can't even ask.

"He didn't!" Al lies, tears welling up.

"Albus."

Al is caught between knowing the right thing to do and being so foolishly in love as to ignore it. He thinks of the way Scorpius looks at him just before they kiss, of how it felt the first time Scorpius was inside his body, the way Scorpius' arm slings around him every night, the press of his lips just because, and Al cannot feel anything except the desire to prove himself. Harry is in the way. Scorpius said he would be in the way.

"Where's the wand?" Al growls, his voice not his own. "Just give me the wand, and everything will be fine."

"I can't do that. Lower your wand, Al. Don't make me do this."

"Do what?" Al asks, fear in his voice for the first time. His dad is capable of so much.

"Lower your wand, Al, please."

Harry presses down on the wand more firmly. Al only clutches tighter. Blue and red sparks are fizzing out at the tip, engulfing Harry's fingers in a warm light. Al concentrates on not letting that light get out of control. He concentrates on keeping it warm, not sending it into a heated frenzy in his panic. He concentrates and concentrates and aches for Scorpius to be there with him, because if Scorpius were here, nothing would be going wrong. Al knows he's messed everything up for them, that Scorpius could fix it, could fix _him_.

There is a crash at the fireplace. Harry lets go of Al's wand and spins, turns his back on Al because he trusts him. Al knows he only has seconds to do what must be done, but he knows too that he is incapable.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

This alone brings Harry's gaze to him. Their eyes meet, green on green. In the time it takes Harry to blink, Al is gone.

Someone else whispers, " _Avada Kedavra_ ," and the room falls silent.

  


- _Where will you run when they come for you?  
Will there be someone left to sing your blues?_ -

The room only falls silent for a moment. Then, chaos. One minute Al is alive and the next he is crumbled in a pile of limbs and robes on the floor, unmoving and most certainly dead. Scorpius has no time to check, but he knows what death looks like, especially from this particular spell, having just used it on Teddy moments ago.

Harry is quick to react, to fling curses into empty darkness, and Scorpius grins. Harry can't see him under the cloak, can't predict where he'll be next, and using this to his advantage, Scorpius waits and waits and waits. He watches with derisive glee as Harry Potter comes undone, sanity unbound from his bones, screaming in agony. He thinks his son is dead, so Scorpius doesn't blame him, but he can't help but grin and grin and grin in knowing what is to come.

Finally, Harry seems to tire himself, seems to wonder if perhaps the stranger—or, no games, he knows it must be Scorpius—has gone just as silently as he came. But Harry's wand is ever at the ready, and Scorpius waits. This is the last of the artifacts. _I must not fail._

"Where are you, Malfoy?" Harry growls. His voice is unhinged and otherworldly. It gives Scorpius chills, makes him wonder all kinds of awful things. "Show yourself, you coward."

Scorpius grits his teeth. He is not a coward. Harry is toying with him. Harry is angry. Harry should be dead, but by God, he waits.

" _Show yourself!_ " Harry roars. "Goddamn it, Malfoy, show some respect. I thought, even if I was wrong about your intentions, that some part of you loved my son. Prove that I'm not seeing things, that at least you care about Albus."

Only silence. Scorpius waits. Harry is sweating, is red-faced, is pacing like a rabid dog with its fangs bared and slobbery. Harry looks mad. Scorpius waits.

And then it happens. Harry falls to his knees. The wand is still in his hand as he lays himself over his son and mutters helplessly to the blueing corpse all the _I love you_ s in the world.

It is time.

Scorpius casts _Expelliarmus_. Harry's wand goes flying. Scorpius feels no different, but he knows, he knows he's done it! But then Harry is charging at him, or at least the spot from which the spell came, and Scorpius is beneath Harry's hard body and punching fists and laughing and laughing and laughing, even when his lip is split and teeth are busted. The Invisibility Cloak slips free, and then Harry's face is truly lit up with rage.

Finally, Scorpius grows tired of it and casts a simple, dull spell, with a slight flick of his wand: "Petrificus Totalus</i>."

Harry goes immediately still. His hard body has caged Scorpius in, but Scorpius like it.

"Is that all it took?" Scorpius whispers. "Is that all? To bring down the great Harry Potter?" He starts laughing and cannot stop, maniacal and insane. He rolls them both until he is straddling Harry's arched hips and laughs some more as he slides the cloak off completely. "I could do unspeakable things to you, Harry. Could fuck you, degrade you, piss in your mouth, parade your pale corpse through the streets naked if I wanted." Scorpius itches to do it. To truly humiliate Harry, make him wither inside like a sorrowful creature crushed beneath his boot. He is pulsing with the need to do it, to ruin Harry, but even his desire is not enough. "Merlin but I wish I had the time," he sighs.

Standing to his feet, Scorpius brushes himself off and seals the fireplace, the doors, the faux windows too. He glances around at the destruction, tsks at the look on Harry's face, and finds time to spit on Harry's stone-still body. It gives him a shiver of arousal.

"You know, all the times I fucked your son," he whispers, drawing closer to Harry, as if by magnets. "They weren't half as good as this. Seeing you, prone and incapacitated…it does things to me, Harry."

At that, he remembers that Albus is still dead and approaches the stiff corpse. He kneels, reverently combs Al's hair off his face and presses a kiss to his cold lips.

"I told you we'd do it," he whispers and can't help but giggle. "Lot of help you were."

He hears a grunt from behind and turns to see Harry's eyes erratically shifting and looking. If he can move his eyes, he'll soon be able to move other things. There is no time…but Scorpius cannot help himself. Knowing what it does to Harry, he climbs on top of Al's dead body and laughs.

"Maybe I'll show you what we do?" he asks. Harry grunts and moans and makes noises that don't exist in this world. Scorpius convulses in laughter for a long while, and then stops abruptly and grimaces. "I don't have time for this. Come, Albus, my love; wake up for your prince."

Harry is making noises fit to rip out of his chest as Scorpius leans down and kisses Al in earnest. His lips are cold as Scorpius turns the stone in his palm once. They are still cold twice. They feel as if they are moving after the third.

If Scorpius expects Al to be alive just as he was, it must be a shock to see what Al has become. The expression on Scorpius' face is wild and sickly when he sees the pale imitation rise from the flesh and dissolve into being before him, above Al's blue limbs and still chest. Scorpius stumbles back, off Al's body, and watches the apparition lurch awkwardly towards him, limbs stiff and eyes white.

Beyond the door to Harry Potter's office, nobody hears the screams.


End file.
